Of Scalpels and Spells
by Ptronille
Summary: Harry has always been living two parallel lives, which switch when he sleeps: one as a Muggle in the Dursleys' household, one as a wizard at Hogwarts. He becomes a healer in one, and a surgeon in the other, but Voldemort is still around... Will be HHr R
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer : I don't own Harry Potter or anything you might recognize as belonging to his world, and I certainly don't make money from fanfiction.

Author's Note :

This is my take on my own challenge (see The Healer's Challenge). I don't know if or when I will continue it.

Anyone interested may borrow the chapter and continue to thread on it. Or they might go and read The Healer's Challenge for the full conditions.

This is more of an introduction chapter. It is not long, and it is written in a speedy narrative, just to sum things up. There are many loose threads, which will be connected in later chapters (_if_ there are later chapters.).

Also, I apologize if there are some odd expressions - I am not a native-English speaker.

**Of Scalpels and Spells**

Chapter One

A Tale of Two Lives

'Difficult. Very difficult. You certainly make things interesting, don't you?' Harry shifted on a stool as the Hat tutted in his head. 'You don't belong to Griffindor, you certainly don't. Brave, yes – sometimes – reckless, no. Could be Slytherin, you have held onto your ambition for a very long time, now; but you're not cunning, no, not sly in the slightest – it's surprising considering your home life, but people cope differently, don't they? You'd be crushed, there. Maybe. So, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. You're very clever, yes, and you have wisdom beyond your years… But you don't learn for knowledge's sake, no, no, no, you have a goal. You would be very bored, there, and you would lose that people touch you possess. Hufflepuff is better. You're patient, yes, gentle and kind. You're trustworthy and loyal – respectful – and, ah yes, you work hard, very, very hard to achieve your goal. What triggered such desire I wonder? But I've chatted too long already. Off you go, my boy, to HUFFLEPUFF!'

A rather stunned silence fell on the Great Hall of Hogwarts as Harry took off the hat, thanking him before jumping off the stool. He reverently handed the Sorting Hat to McGonnagall and looked uncertainly at the black-and-yellow colored banner hanging above an all-too silent table, wondering why they weren't clapping like for the other students. Then the Hufflepuff exploded in cheers, disbelief soon replaced by enthusiasm as they welcomed the Boy-who-Lived. He grinned a little sheepishly and walked towards them, sitting next to a boy he would later know as Cedric Diggory, truly relieved that he was sorted in the house which would permit him to become a healer.

* * *

As soon as sleep engulfed him in the cosy, comfortable bed he had been attributed, Harry opened his eyes – to another life.

A life where magic didn't exist, where he still lived at the Dursleys, in Dudley's second bedroom, and still attended muggle middle school.

Petunia knocked on the door to his room. 'You up, Harry?' she asked, her head popping in the doorway to make sure her nephew's eyes were open.

'Yes Aunt Petunia,' he replied and got up, quickly picking clothes before heading to the shower. As hot water poured on him, he contemplated his life. Ever since he could remember, he had been leading two lives. Whenever he fell asleep, he awoke in the next. For a long time, he had thought he was just reliving days, though he had never mentioned it to his family, knowing how edgy and skittish they were whenever something strange came up in the conversation. He didn't mind –it permitted him to learn things better, which could only help in his ambition to become a doctor. But on his eleventh birthday, he had understood what the difference was between his lives: magic. In one, he was a wizard, and he would attend Hogwarts till the day he could become a healer. In the other, he was a muggle, magic didn't exist, and he would become a doctor.

He had no idea _what_ had caused his lives to split, though, not when it had happened.

His thoughts turned to the Dursleys. He still clearly remembered their early treatment of him, how he had been chucked off to the cupboard under the stairs, how he'd been yelled at and sometimes cuffed for having superior grades than Dudley, how miserable he had felt when he'd cried himself to sleep, wishing someone would come to help him.

But all that had changed.

Harry had always wanted to help people by becoming a doctor and from a young age, he had taken to hanging in the library –which wasn't forbidden, since he was out of his family's way– and learning as much as he could about his dream profession. He had absorbed the knowledge and never let it go, like a sponge. (This, he had learned, was called photographic memory.) Therefore, when a serious accident had befallen Dudley at the tender age of eight, he had been able to provide first-aid. That had saved his cousin's life.

After that, his family had stopped hindering him and had even pushed him in his ambition to be as successful as he could. He had worked hard, so much that he had jumped several classes. Now, he was in fourth year of secondary school, also called Year 10, which meant there was a four-year gap between him and his classmates. He didn't mind, for they all treated him rather fairly; some ignored him and some were friendly, occasionally helping him. Thankfully, none bullied him, but perhaps that was because he was in a public school which his aunt and uncle had paid a lot to get him into.

Shaking his head at the reminiscence, he stepped out of the shower, dried himself and dressed. The foggy mirror gave him a blurred shape for reflection. He wiped it with his hand and looked at himself. He was shorter than most eleven-year-old, but it didn't matter. Perhaps he would grow, in time, and anyway, all his classmates, being older, were far taller than him and it was silly to wish otherwise. Emerald green eyes stared back at him, flicking to and fro as he took in his appearance. His shock of black hair, a mess as usual, contrasted with his pale skin, but he didn't look unhealthy. A bit on the scrawny side, perhaps, but years of malnutrition couldn't disappear at once, just as they couldn't be easily forgotten.

Still, for the sake of a peaceful household, Harry didn't mention his former bad treatment to the adult Dursleys and neither did they. He was lucky that they had changed and he knew better than to push his luck. So, even though the abuse was not entirely forgiven, it remained an issue nobody ever brought up. Except Dudley, sometimes, when he felt awful pangs of remorse compelling him to apologize profusely.

For his relationship to his cousin had changed. Dudley had been grateful to Harry for saving his life and they had gradually become tentative friends. Of course, the transition hadn't been easy and arguments had broken out quite regularly for a while, then it had smoothed to some sort of companionship. They weren't friends, exactly – the fact that Harry wasn't in the same class made things difficult, too – but they were no longer at odds. Vernon treated Harry with utter indifference and Petunia, pushed by gratitude, went out of her way to make Privet Drive seem more homely to him, even more so since nothing had happened on his eleventh birthday.

In the other life, things with his family were at the same sort of standstill. They had reluctantly accepted to let him go to Hogwarts, and the whole family's relationship had grown tense and strained for a time, but it seemed the month after Professor McGonnagall's visit had allowed them time to resign themselves.

'Harry!' Dudley shouted from outside the door. 'Breakfast's ready.'

'Coming!'

He tugged on his clothes a little – they fit him, for which Harry was grateful for –, opened the door and clambered down to the kitchen, ready for his first day in year 10. As he ate his buttered toast, he spared a thought for his life at Hogwarts, and his heart squeezed with excitement at the idea of getting his first day of magical lessons. He wondered whether he could do magic in this life, too, or whether his magical knowledge would help him at all for his everyday classes. However, when Dudley engaged him in a cheerful conversation about his own upcoming first day in secondary school, he firmly put those thoughts out of his mind and focused on his cousin's words.

* * *

Harry's life at Hogwarts turned out to be rather more troublesome than he had at first thought.

In his first year, he quite single-handedly defeated a troll to save a Griffindor girl Ron had offended, which resulted in ending Ron's and his relationship while establishing a new, timid friendship with Hermione Granger, mostly focused on schoolwork as they didn't see much of each other in classes. Hanging out with them was Neville Longbottom, Susan Bones and Terry Boot, who joined them after discovering Harry and Hermione were at the top of the class.

It came as a surprise to everyone, actually, but Harry discovered that year that Transfiguration was both his forte and his passion. It came to him easily; since he had studied cells in his other life, he knew how to change things at their very core. He worked hard to excel in Charms, though he could never surpass Hermione, and was good, but nothing extraordinary at Defence Against the Dark Arts. Potions, however, he found unsettling, partly because of the snide remarks the teachers ceaselessly dealt out, but also because, well, he had never been one to follow a time schedule to the second.

Flying lessons had been great, revealing that Harry was a great flyer. There was even talk of moving him to the Quidditch team, but he had refused: the training and matches would be too time-consuming. He didn't want his grades to drop. If anything, he was aware that healers were very selectively picked, and that only the best students could pretend to such formation. Even if his influence as Boy-who-Lived could have waltz him in there even without NEWTS, he wanted to make it out with his own abilities. Sprout understood, and though disappointed, he thought he saw a shimmer of pride in her eyes.

Years passed with their share of trouble: the Philosopher Stone, the Chamber of Secrets… Strangely enough, the danger pushed Harry to work even more than he was used to. When he turned twelve, he was expected to choose some GCEs, and he had elected those most fitted to medicine. Thanks to the knowledge, in his third year, he published a thesis that the microscopic technologic knowledge of Muggles could actually help improve Transfiguration, for it permitted the transfigured elements to be changed entirely, and therefore, permanently. He was hailed as something of a genius in the world of Transfiguration masters, and McGonnagall even recognized with baffled admiration that he was now probably better than she was. It was that same year that Harry learned he had a godfather. Even if he ended up being separated from him in the end, it was nice to know he had a family that cared about him and to receive Sirius' letters, something he sorely missed in his other life. He also kept a correspondence with his Defense professor, Remus Lupin, whom he had found to be quite similar to him; knowing the poor man was doomed to a life of injustice because of his lycanthropy had only caused him to deepen his relationship with him. Harry had felt, upon meeting him, how little Remus had to hold onto, and he had resolved to become one steady thing in his life and now he considered the man something akin to his uncle.

His fourth year been – strange. The Goblet of Fire spat his name out and from then on, everything went downhill. While Hufflepuff was thrilled to have a second champion, most of the other houses, not to mention the other schools, resented him for being too young, and didn't believe him when he argued he hadn't done anything. The tasks were difficult, ending in near disaster each time, and he was glad for Cedric's help and advice. To witness Cedric die and Lord Voldemort come back to the land of the living, as well as discovering one of his trusted professors to be a Death Eater, came as a severe blow and it reflected on both his lives.

His fifth year was the worst of them all. In his muggle life, Harry started his first year of medical school, which increased his work load tenfold. In his wizard life, he had to cope with Umbridge and ignore her constant allusions, teach himself Defense, try to figure out why Dumbledore wouldn't talk to him, and study for the Potions OWLs, which he was most likely to fail when he absolutely _could not_ afford to, as it would put an end to his dream of becoming a healer. Then, as if it wasn't enough, he faced off Voldemort again at the Ministry, only managing to survive thanks to his Transfiguration ability, morphing walls out of thin air to block spells while he waited for someone to help. Sirius died, swallowed by the veil; and he learned a prophecy tying him and the Dark Lord in a gruesome link that could only be severed with death.

After that horrible month, the Ministry put the whole country on high alert and the Boy-who-Lived was hailed as a hero. When his ambition to become a doctor had come out, though, the tendency changed, for the wizards wished for a fighting warrior, not some weak boy who stayed behind. Harry ignored all that, and in the following months, the buzz abated, mostly because Voldemort went off the radar, seemingly disappearing as if he had never existed. The truth was probably that he was gathering supporters and waiting for the right moment.

Harry's sixth and seventh year went by with not one clue of what Voldemort was doing.

Harry entered the healer formation, accepted wholeheartedly because of his grades and within three years, he completed the formation and started working at St Mungo's. In his other life, he became a Bachelor of Medicine, Bachelor of Surgery. The Ministry's safety policy, which had lessened over the years, now mellowed to a complete stop, though Harry was informed that the Order of the Phoenix remained vigilant.

Still, Voldemort didn't make his move. People began to wonder, doubting he had ever come back. Some spoke of an impersonator; others said the Boy-who-Lived had orchestrated the whole thing to bring fame to himself. Newspapers both trashed and celebrated him. Harry, however, couldn't care less and focused instead on helping people.

The time would come, he knew, for the prophecy to be fulfilled. Soon, probably.

But as Hagrid was fond of saying – 'What _will come_, _will come_, and we'll meet it when it does.'


	2. Chapter 2

**I'd like to thank those who alerted the fic, and my one and only reviewer and beta, Comical Epiphanies, who did a wonderful work on this chapter ! Thank her as much as me ! :) And if you'd be so kind as to leave a review -always a pleasure. ^^**

* * *

At twenty, Hermione Granger was perfectly happy.

Her studies, which were supposed to last four years, were going well. She was studying the international wizarding political system, aiming at working in the Foreign Affairs. Of course, being her, she took on several languages—she had always thought Hogwarts' curriculum lacked those—and adhered to an association defending Muggleborns' right to equality.

Her family was fine; her parents had recently moved to the countryside, growing tired of the toils of the city life, but they still had their dentist office, and although business was reduced, they managed well enough to be content. She had great friends whom she'd kept in touch with after Hogwarts, which was not a small feat in her book. She had been rewarded with the proof that they did care for her as much as she did them when they had all answered present for her 21st birthday.

Yet, there was one problem in Hermione's life.

Harry Potter.

During their school years, they had been competitors. Being regarded as the most intelligent student in class by far was rewarding, but at Hogwarts Hermione discovered that competing with someone equally smart could be far, far more interesting, pushing her past her boundaries and opening her to so many new things—as well as helping to keep her head cool. Of course, she had always been a little disappointed that he had never taken the competition as seriously as her. It was a strange concept that someone could naturally be uncompetitive. Then again, he saw her as immensely superior to him in intelligence, though for the life of her she couldn't figure out why.

For seven years, they had been close, but not exactly best friends. Despite a circle of loyal companions, Harry had never really seemed to have a best friend, and even now, Hermione knew he had secrets of his own that neither she nor the others had been told. Such as how he had managed to know advanced _Muggle_ physics by third year. Or why he appeared so far away sometimes.

This slight distance, however, was not what bothered Hermione. He was entitled to his own secrets, after all, even though she _wanted to know_. No, her problem was different.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I apologize for not coming to your birthday. I swear to you I tried every possible thing short of hexing my superior to get out of work early, and it actually worked. I was on my way to your apartment when someone reacted badly to a portkey and I had to take him to the emergency unit. The only guy on call tonight was an intern, and he wasn't qualified enough to handle it, so I had to step up._

_I'm really, really sorry… Can I make it up to you sometime?_

_See you soon_

_-Harry._

His writing was a nigh-unreadable scrawl, which meant, as she had learned after years of knowing him, he had been in a hurry. No doubt he had sent it as soon as he had a few seconds to breathe. He was _that _kind; thinking of others when he should be thinking of himself.

Yet this was the third postponed meeting, and Hermione was starting to get the definite impression that he was avoiding her.

She had wracked her brains for something she had said that could have offended him, but she had come up short. She had written to Susan, Neville, Terry and Luna, asking them if he was behaving the same way with _them_, but despite their assurance that he was simply busy, she still felt… frustrated. Harry was—had always been—somewhat fascinating, the Boy-who-Lived, a Transfiguration genius—and yet, a hard worker, a modest, tolerant, unassuming boy whose lifelong ambition was to help people. He was the kind of person one only met once in a lifetime, or at least so Hermione thought. And all those years, when she had thought about how little they actually talked about personal things, like friends were supposed to, she had always figured it was alright, because she had time.

But now, time was running out because he was closing off.

It worried her.

There had been only two occasions when Harry had shut like that: the first time after Cedric died and the second after Sirius died. Had he lost someone close recently? She didn't think so; she would have been informed. The only reason she could think of was that he was simply no longer interested in being friends with her, and that set her mental alarms ringing despite the fact that she _knew_ how perfectly irrational such fear was.

Perhaps he was simply busy.

But for some reason, the answer did not satisfy her.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall looked up as a student came up to her desk. Lina Trefold, a first-years who, despite having been sorted into Slytherin, was very shy. Minerva's expression softened as she saw the frightened girl. 'How may I help you, Miss Trefold?'

Lina's blue eyes flicked to her professor's face before her gaze dropped to Minerva's desk. 'I'd like to get help in Transfiguration,' she mumbled, and only the cat's sharp hearing allowed Minerva to make out the words.

It was true that Lina was not as gifted as other students in her class, but she did not seem to be struggling. But Minerva was not one to discard a student's plea for help. 'Well, what do you think is the problem with your Transfiguration?'

'It's just…I don't get it. I try to understand the manual, ma'am, I really do, but it's all gibberish to me. The others in my House, they're not doing so well either, and there's no Muggleborn to explain it to us…'

The manual was not very complicated in and of itself. Basically, it explained the best method of transfiguration before explaining first years' spells, formulas and wand movements. Before, most Pureblood-raised students had an advantage over Muggleborns in Transfiguration, for they were more familiar with magic and did not even think it was strange for an object's matter and shape to be altered. Now, however, with the publication of Harry's thesis, everything had changed. Since it involved delving into an object's inner formation—cells, molecules, and atoms—Muggleborns grasped it more easily than Purebloods. It was a strange paradox that people not raised in a magical environment would be more talented at a magical ability than their comrades and yet, such was magic. Chaotic, paradoxical, and beautiful.

Minerva remembered the boom Harry's thesis had created in the Transfiguration world. Most Masters had cried genius, acknowledging with wonder that the Boy-who-Lived's method did make Transfiguration easier, making it more precise and last longer. Others had reacted like old spoilsports , recoiling from Harry's work as if it were the devil's, clutching to their outdated beliefs like they were holy.

As for Minerva… Amazement had been her first reaction, though in retrospect, she shouldn't have been surprised, since Harry had already proved himself to be bright countless times. Along with that feeling had been excitement. She had felt like a first-year bouncing on her chair all over again, waiting to be taught something new. And if Minerva were completely honest with herself, there had been a slight—very slight—irritation, too. Irritation that they had all been outsmarted by a thirteen year old. And that _she_ hadn't thought of it first.

Lina coughed, startling Minerva out of her thoughts. 'Very well, Miss Trefold. Would you like me to arrange remedial lessons for you?' She saw the hesitation on the girl's face. 'I'm sure you could pass that knowledge down to your comrades,' she added, knowing the Slytherin would never pass up such an opportunity. After all, being the only one to understand Transfiguration in one's year tended to give one some… influence on one's classmates. Despite the general belief, Minerva _did_ have a notion on how a Slytherin mind worked. She fought a satisfied smile as Lina accepted.

Hopefully, that would rid the girl of her shyness, as well.

* * *

Severus Snape was busy making several potions.

That was not surprising in and of itself, such was his job after all, what with being the Potions Master of Hogwarts. But as it was, the potions were not for the infirmary's sake, nor for his own experiments—how long had it been since he had done anything truly for himself and himself alone? Influences and manipulations… Sometimes he had the impression of being a mere pawn in the war. Of having not one, but two masters, even if one of those was as benevolent as was possible for a man who had led, and won, not one but two wars.

He put his thoughts out of his head, turning instead to his potions' commissioner. Harry bloody Potter. The Boy-who-Lived. James Potter's son. But also—and perhaps above all, though Severus would never admit it—Lily's son.

He had been surprised when the boy was sorted into Hufflepuff, but he had grown to see that he did fit the House. Still, Severus had been all ready to assault and humiliate him verbally, as he had dreamed to do for ten years, yet when he had, Potter had caught him by surprise. When Snape had asked his infamous questions, not only had the boy answered right, proving that he had worked, but he had not been riled in the slightest. It wasn't self-control—no kid could clamp down anger so easily. No, the kid had simply _not been offended_. That had put out Severus, and when he had tried to bait him later in the year, well. The boy had been embarrassed, surely, but neither angry nor hateful towards his potions professor. He had taken everything with endless patience, riding it out like a broom ride. And perhaps even more mind-boggingly, Severus had discovered at the end of the year that Potter had somehow—how? how?—grown to respect him.

_Respect_ him.

This, perhaps, was the greatest offense one had ever caused Severus.

After all, _no one_ was allowed to make him feel ashamed.

In second year, he had settled to blatantly ignoring the boy, and the little smartass had taken it in stride as if it were a normal retrogression from vindictive to indifferent almost overnight.

Third year had changed quite a few things. First, Severus had discovered that Potter was not meek, as he had thought. He only reacted when something he truly cared about came up. Such as discrimination against werewolves. Severus had never seen him angrier than right after the class he had taught about werewolves when the smelly monthly canine had been "sick". He'd showed less emotion when Severus had insulted his parents, though that had been quite a moment too.

It had been right after this occasion that Potter had first confronted him, after all, with nothing less than an, "Excuse me, sir, but with all due respect, why do you dislike me so much?" Snape had been in a nasty mood, so he had answered nastily with something about James, he remembered, and about the boy thinking himself over the rules… The answer had been unexpected. "I'm sorry, sir, if I caused you to think this of me. I'll try not to make it happen in the future." A slight pause, and a flicker of hesitation in his green eyes. "As for my parents, sir, I don't know what happened between you, but let me apologize in their place. I think they'd like to do that if they did do wrong by you."

The discussion had served to open Snape's eyes to reality and he had become more and more interested in the boy who was so… so unlike anything he was _expected to be_. He had no aggressive streak, no warrior code, no death wish, no hunger for honor, nothing that would push him to go against Voldemort… Nothing except, perhaps, his kindness to others, and Sybil's prophecy.

The kid's one ambition was to be a doctor, for Merlin's sake!

But it had turned out exactly how the kid wanted, in the end, though Voldemort was still around.

Snape even ended up making potions for Potter's "top-secret" experiments, those he refused to tell anyone about, even his friends, apparently. Merlin only knew what they could be, a faster boil-curing remedy, perhaps, though after his third year tour de force, Snape somehow thought it would be something bigger. He was almost excited to see it but since "excited" was not a word that could ever be used to describe Severus Snape, he wasn't.

His agreeing to cooperate with Potter was a tacit agreement and peace treaty of sorts.

Besides, the brat paid well.

Snape was stooping over a cauldron of green boiling liquid—or green boiling _mélasse_, as such a degree of thickness was called—when he heard a familiar step in the corridor. "Oh, Merlin, not _him_," he thought, gazing regretfully at the potion in front of him. Ignorant to his less-than-respectful thoughts, the Headmaster of Hogwarts entered.

'Severus!' he greeted cheerfully, but then again, when was the old man not cheerful? 'How are you?'

'I am fine, Headmaster. Brewing a potion as you see,' he hurried to say. 'I'm actually very close to a crucial phase and would appreciate…'

'I'm afraid it cannot wait, Severus.'

"Not one moment of peace and quiet," Severus cursed mentally. 'What is it?' he asked a little briskly, but Albus either took no notice or decided not to show it. He could be as shrewd as a matchmaker.

The Headmaster's blue eyes were not twinkling as he looked over his half-moon, gold-rimmed glasses. He said only one word, but it meant everything.

'Trouble.'

* * *

Harry entered his flat, closing the door behind him before hanging the keys on a hook on the wall. He walked into the kitchen and made himself a hot pot of coffee—his only real vice—before sitting wearily at the table, staring absent-mindedly at the content of his mug.

On such days as this, when he had spent hours in the flurry of the hospital, the peace of his apartment caused his mind to blank out completely. Tonight, it was so quiet it echoed with hollowness inside of him; it took him a few moments before he could identify the feeling for what it was. Loneliness.

He was lonely.

He considered calling a friend, perhaps write to Neville or Hermione, then remembered that it was his muggle life. His spirits dropped. Even though he met many great colleagues and superiors, he had very few actual friends in the muggle world. Part of the reason was he had been very young when he was in high school or in med school. He really had one friend, Rufus, who had gone to Thailand to follow his dream job, leaving Harry alone under the grey sky of England. He wrote and called often, but sometimes, Harry wished he could just see him. Or another friend.

But he was afraid of what he might find if he went in search of his wizard friends.

Even after many years of leading a double life, he still didn't understand how it was possible. It just didn't fit. How was it that when he fell asleep in one of his lives, he woke up _somewhere else_, and _not at the same time_? Because of his busy schedules as a doctor and a healer, he often went by the limit of 24 hours, and yet, when he fell asleep, he irrevocably woke up at the time he was supposed to –be it 7am as in a usual day, or 3am because his pager had beeped.

He didn't understand. Were there two Harrys? And if so, what would happen were they to see each other? And what about the Dursleys?

Or did his mind travel to another universe? Was there, say, a witch Hermione somewhere out in this world, still a shy, slightly bossy know-it-all just because he had never saved her from the troll? Or had she developed differently? Been sorted into another house? Or perhaps she hadn't even been born a witch at all?

His mind grinding to a stop in sheer confusion, Harry sighed.

Better to just drink his coffee for now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note : Sorry for the long wait. Real Author's note is at the end. Have a good read ! ;)**

**Thank you to Comical Epiphanies for beta-reading ! (Go read her fictions !) **

* * *

'Harry, can I ask you a question?'

Harry looked at the witch sitting in front of him with apprehension. He knew what was coming. Either it would be an accusing, "Why are you avoiding me?" or it would be a question about his two lives. He knew she had suspicions—she had to, intelligent as she was. And she was far too curious to let the matter rest.

'Go on,' he said uncertainly. Under the café table, his leg started to jump up and down with tension. The café was a nice place Hermione had found while doing research. Apparently, it was a French café, if the accent with which the owner talked was any indication; and true enough, the decor was a French cliché. It was small but it had a cozy feeling to it. White- and red-squared cloths covered the tables, matching the curtains. The furniture was made of smooth, pale brown wood and the chairs were so comfortable Harry was considering miniaturizing one to take home. That is, he had been until Hermione had dropped her bomb.

'Why did you want to become a doctor?'

Harry almost reeled back in surprise, relief flooding his every limb that she didn't know his secret. 'Oh,' he said, flushing a little. Her eyes flashed, as they did when she noticed something. No doubt she was wondering why he was flustered. The witch picked up her spoon and added sugar to her tea, the metal clinking delicately against the china.

'Err… Well… Why are you asking?'

She threw her bushy hair behind her shoulder, irritated as she always was that it clung to her face, and picked up her cup of tea and sipped. Her keen brown eyes met his own as she shrugged. 'I just realized I'd never asked.'

Her tone suggested there was an ulterior motive, but Harry let it go, relieved by her choice of subject. It had taken a long time for him to finally come and see her. Part of the reason he hadn't before was time—healers were among the busiest professions one could find—and her own formation loaded her with work, which she added to with her usual zeal. But another part of him had also wanted to avoid her, not out of spite, but because he feared he would end up telling her too much and she would put the pieces of the puzzle together.

He tended to blabber a little too much around her and sometimes, that witch was just too smart for her own good.

Originally, he wouldn't have minded telling her, or any of his other friends, his secret. But after fifth year, each time he had thought of broaching the subject, loud, mystical words spoke in his mind: '_the one with the power the Dark Lord knows not approaches_'… That was enough to kill off any desire of telling them.

It wasn't that he didn't trust them, or that he thought he had to share this burden alone. Only this strange, double life he led could very well be the power Voldemort was not supposed to know about. The only way Harry could ensure it remained unknown was by keeping it to himself.

His friends, after all, didn't know Occlumency. They had no barrier preventing Death Eaters from plucking his secrets from their minds. And _if_ the power he held was the prophesized power, he couldn't lose such a huge advantage against one of the most powerful wizards of his time.

'Harry?' A hand waved in front of his eyes and he jumped. To restore his composure, he drunk his own cup of tea, trying not to grimace when he found it cold.

'Sorry. I got lost into my own mind.' He frowned playfully. 'I swear, this thing is a total mess.'

'Like your hair, you mean?' A dimple dug into her cheek as she smiled.

'Touché.'

'So _why_ did you become a healer?'

'To help people,' he said automatically.

'Alright, I can _guess_ that,' Hermione said, using the "you're-an-idiot" tone. 'But why do you have such a strong compulsion?' Realizing she sounded almost accusing, she quickly corrected, 'I don't mean to say it's not great. But why did you choose to channel it by becoming a healer, when you could have become… I don't know, a teacher?'

Harry tapped a finger on his chin. 'You know, I never asked myself that question.' He chuckled when she huffed. 'What can I say? I've always told you you were more intelligent.'

'This has nothing to do with intelligence,' she retorted, pink suddenly coloring her cheeks. 'So?'

Harry looked back on his life. Had there been a moment when he had suddenly decided to become a doctor?

'Perhaps it was an unconscious reaction to my mum being murdered in front of me,' he whispered. Hermione narrowed her eyes; she paid as much heed to psychology as Divination, which was to say, not much. 'Or perhaps I was just impressed by the doctors when Dudley almost died at eight.' But he had wanted to become one _before_ that. 'But I don't think so.'

He stayed silent for a few heartbeats, rummaging through his memory. 'Okay, I have a theory. Maybe I always felt like I had the potential to do great things—I realized pretty early I had photographic memory, you know. I wanted to use that potential to help people. The healer seemed like the best choice… It's what I've wanted to do for years. Even before I knew I was a wizard, I wanted to be a doctor. As to why, well... It might seem pretty stupid, but I think when I learned history in primary school, the people that stayed with me most were physicians. And I remember being struck by the Hippocratic oath. "I will never do harm to anyone." That's beautiful.'

He almost stopped, then, but his bulwarks had fallen and words poured like water from his mouth. 'It's the most beautiful profession in the world, Hermione. Not the easiest, not the most lucrative, not the most fascinating, even. But the most beautiful. There are moments when hope dies. When the hospitals become places of sadness. When you have done all you could, and it was not enough.' Though his voice shook, he went on, 'But you continue fighting. For the smiles on a patient's face. For their family's relief. For their laughter… Because when you succeed and the patient goes home fine, well, they leave happy. They're _happy_, Hermione. Is there anything as beautiful in the world as making people happy?'

Harry had touched it. The reason why he'd become a doctor. He touched it almost physically, just as he had when he'd encountered the Mirror of Erised a long, long time ago. When his patients went home, families were reunited.

They were whole again.

A whole family was what he himself had lacked.

And because he knew how terrible, how awful, how lonely it felt… it was something he couldn't bear to see anyone else lack.

He glanced at Hermione, only to find a blurred shape in her place. Startled, he touched his eyes, and there were indeed a few tears wetting his eyelashes. He wiped them, flushing red, embarrassed at his moment's lapse.

But the witch didn't look judgmental. She gave a compassionate smile, as if she had read the true reason in his mind, and touched his hand. It was a casual, natural gesture, but Harry felt a little better. He sipped at his tea.

'Thank you.'

'No. Thanks for answering. So, you're really sure you want to keep drinking a cold tea?'

* * *

When she got home, Hermione felt reassured. Perhaps Harry had been avoiding her, but she had finally seen him and he didn't appear any more distant, so he probably didn't want to cut ties with her.

But she hadn't forgotten how strangely he had acted at one point in the conversation. He had dreaded her asking something. As to what question would have sent him panicking… It had obviously something to do with what he hid from her. But she knew nothing of it!

Had he dropped hints at some point, which she hadn't noticed but which he thought she had?

Or did he think she could just figure out the secrets by herself?

Whatever the answer, she decided to lay it to rest for now. It would gain her nothing to freak Harry out. She resolved to ask other, more innocent questions. It served two purposes: to get to know him better after the shameful realization of a few days before that she didn't actually know much about him and to wait until he trusted her enough to reveal his secrets. She was usually patient with her friends—they had been patient with her at the beginning, after all—so why couldn't she be so for Harry?

She sat at her desk, looking with dismay at the mountain of letters courier owls had brought during the time she'd been gone. She had a lot of work to do, and no time to ponder more on the problem. Just as she was about to reach for her wand to open the nearest letter a corner of a parchment buried under all the letters glowed red.

She pulled it out. It was the Magic Missive she shared with Susan. Her own invention, it was a set of twin parchments. When someone wrote on the first, the same words appeared on the other and the parchment glowed red to indicate a new message. Terry had joked numerous times that should she ever commercialize it, she would revolutionize the owl system and become a millionaire, but so far, she hadn't even considered it. It was always useful to have a hidden advantage in a war, after all.

Settling a little more comfortably in her chair, she read Susan's message. She had to squint because the ex-Hufflepuff had obviously written fast.

_I know we got a meeting planned on Sunday next week, but I thought it was important enough not to wait till then. Do you remember when you asked if Harry was avoiding us? Well I hadn't realized until you said it, but he does seem a little edgy these days. You and I both know he has secrets. Well, if we want to be in on it, we have to learn Occlumency, apparently. Do you know what that is? Can you find books on the subject?_

Hermione stared at the paper then scrambled for a quill and inkwell. _How do you know we need to learn that?_

Obviously Susan had the paper near hand, for the reply appeared a minute later. _I asked what we had to do to be able to hear what he's hiding. He told me._

The witch gaped at the Missive, feeling all but cheated. She devised a clever plan to give Harry the space he needed without losing his friendship, and a little Hufflepuff honesty was all that was necessary?

She could have murdered Susan right now.

She calmed down a little when she realized she hadn't been as stupid as it seemed: her plan would still serve to deepen Harry and her friendship.

But still, she could have seriously maimed Susan right now.

There was nothing Hermione Granger hated more than to feel stupid. Especially when the solution was _that_ simple.

_I'll get the books_, she wrote a little ungratefully. _Can you warn the others? About the Occlumency thing?_

_No prob_, came the response. _And please don't be mad at me!_

_

* * *

_

Severus Snape heard him before he appeared, but he didn't move, still bent over his students' essays, busying himself by making big red slashes on a poor and undeserving piece of parchment. At last came a knock.

'Enter.'

In walked Harry Potter. Snape spitefully—and a little childishly—continued to grade the essay until he had reached the bottom of the page, at last landing his gaze on the young man. Potter hadn't moved an inch, standing in front of the desk with his hands folded together. He looked terrible. His hair was messier than normal; he was bleary-eyed, his face was drawn and tired, and dark circles contrasted sharply with his complexion. No doubt he would have gratefully sat down, but he was waiting for his former professor's permission.

Snape did not indulge him and took the essay's second page, his eyes deciphering the sloppy handwriting as he tried not to sneer in disdain. Did nobody like Potions enough to write a decent piece of work?

'You look awful,' he said.

'Is that concern in your voice, professor?'

The professor's eyes snapped up to the brat again. Was that—finally!—a sarcastic comeback from the Potter spawn? But no. His gloating excitement gave way to disappointment as he took in the frank gaze of his ex-student. The young man _really_ was asking. Why couldn't he provide Severus with a little bit of amusement sometimes, or at least give him an excuse to rant?

'No.' Snape resisted pinching the bridge of his nose or sighing. The boy was hopeless.

Yet the Potions Master had seen his friends laugh at things he said… So, his mind concluded, either he had a sense of humor and didn't show it in front of his teacher, or he hadn't and his friends laughed because he was the Boy-who-Lived and they felt compelled to.

The second proposition was the right one, Snape decided.

He rose, fetched a few potions from his cabinet before handing them to Potter. 'Here. Those are the potions you asked me.'

'Thank you, sir. I believe your pay has been delivered to your bank account,' came the careful reply.

'May I ask what purpose they will serve?'

'Well…' Potter seemed embarrassed. 'You know the project is secret, sir.'

"I know that, you silly boy!" the professor thought. "I was hoping you'd tell me anyway." He tried to squash his curiosity, to no avail.

'But you will like it… I think,' he added.

'And will that marvelous product of yours hit the stalls soon?' Snape drawled.

'I… doubt it.'

The conversation had come to a standstill. The healer fidgeted—wishing to be gone and to bed, doubtlessly—but he was waiting for Snape to dismiss him. The Potions Master smirked. Today was not his day; perhaps Potter's disappointed face would dispel his bad mood?

'I daresay your pet project will have to be put on the backburner, Potter.'

The young man's eyes flicked up to his. Worried emerald green. Snape twisted sourly, remembering things past, when those same eyes had looked at him in the very same way. When Lily Evans and he had still been friends.

'You see, Voldemort has just made his comeback. Azkaban has been burned to the ground and all the Dementors and former prisoners have joined his army.'

* * *

**Author's Final note : There you go, a whole chapter... How does it feel? Good enough to leave a review? Please remember that "a well-rounded review is the best compliment a writer can receive". I think it's what this website says when you leave a review... Don't you want to make me a great compliment? :P**

**Enough of that. The next chapter will probably contain more action, so all of you who are desperate for the story to really pick up will be satisfied ! ;)**

**Oh. One last note : if you like fantasy stories, please go check out my story on Fictionpress. You might be pleasantly surprised ^^ ! Link is my profile's homepage.**

**See you !**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer : If I were making money from writing that fanfiction, I'd update far, far more often, end up writing crap and winning lots of money. Fortunately it doesn't work that way.

Author's Note : I took my sweet time, didn't I? I'm very, very sorry. I wish I could say it was all work, but the summer vacation did come in between the last update and this one, so the truth is I don't have any excuse. Except that I do, because I was writing my own story (a part of which you can find on FP), and it is a far more serious and important project than Scalpels & Spells. However, I do think this story has grown on me, so I will strive to finish it. And I know Comical Epiphanies will be kicking my ass otherwise. ^^

In this chapter : well, it still feels more like a transition chapter. But good news, I know where I'm going for the next few chapters so with luck (?) you should get the next one anytime between tomorrow and in six months' time.

Please review and more importantly : **please enjoy.**

* * *

Harry Potter was leaning over a bloody mess.

There was blood everywhere, on his hands and arms, of course, but also on his torso, on his feet, and a few splatters on his face. His hands were deep into the body, his fingers probing around the gaping hole for the right artery to plug, the warmth of the blood seeping through his medical gloves.

There were two of them, two surgeons on one patient, battling with his failing heart to push death away. Harry was a cancer surgeon, and even as he stayed entirely focused on his task, somewhere at the back of his mind he wondered what he was doing on an open-heart surgery. Then again, what with the rush this morning had brought, ambulance coming after ambulance, it had been all hands on deck and no time to be picky.

Good thing he wasn't new to this. He couldn't imagine how the interns were coping; the hospital hadn't been nearly that busy in… Oh, all things considered, in at least a week.

'Found it,' he said the moment he finally got his hand on the damn artery that had burst a little earlier.

'Right,' said Dr Meyer, 'now I can…' The rest of his sentence was drowned in sound as the alarms started beeping loudly, alerting them that despite their best efforts the heart was crashing. Then the line went flat, the one final note stretched out.

'Get the paddles!' Harry screamed, even as the nurse was already racing to him with the paddles in hand. 'Clear,' he said, and placed them carefully around the heart. There was a shock, and he looked up hopefully at the screens, but the single tone was still blaring in his ears. 'Charge to 400,' Meyer said, but the nurse had once again anticipated his command and Harry shocked the heart again. It wasn't enough.

In the end, nothing proved sufficient.

The patient died.

* * *

Harry sat for in a haze, eating a tasteless lunch, shoveling food down his mouth even though he would have been hard-pressed to tell what it was he was eating. Mechanically, he finished up his plate. He wasn't hungry, was rather nauseous, actually, the way he always felt after losing a patient, yet he had to eat, to keep up his energy so as not to lose another one.

He still had some time before the end of his pause, so he went to the communal area and sat in a corner, doing abdominals. He didn't like it much, but as a surgery could well take several hours, he had to keep up his endurance; plus he rarely had time for sports during his time off, anyway. He lost himself in the task, glad to think of nothing but the number of abdominals he was at, to hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing, to feel nothing but his accelerated heartbeat punching in his ears each time the blood flowed.

Then there was a clatter as the door opened, but Harry barely heard it, focused as he was on his exercise. There was a sigh and, 'Potter.' Startled, he looked up.

His Chief of Surgery stood in the doorway. She was a woman in her late forties, and the trade had made her face's lines hard and strong, but now they were softened with a little concern. 'You're pushing yourself,' she said. It was not question, just a fact.

Harry blinked. 'Ah – err, yes ma'am.' He didn't really know how to answer that.

'You've lost a patient, haven't you?'

He darkened. 'Yes ma'am.'

'Don't let it eat at you.' She smiled a little, but her smile was sad. 'The thing with patients is that they never stop coming. You lose one and you save ten others. That's the way things are.'

_Perhaps_, Harry thought, _but __the __one __you __lost, __well, __that__'__s __something __unique __gone, __never __to __come __again. __Something __irreplaceable._ And that was just so, so very sad.

'Are there any other concerns I should be aware of?'

Harry thought about it. Should he mention the fact that he hardly saw any of his friends anymore? Or the fact that Voldemort had seemingly come out of hiding before Harry had even started launching his plan to stop him? Or perhaps the fact that dozens of Death Eaters were now loose in the world, criminals and psychopaths and just plain cold-hearted ambitious people, who would once again spread terror and distrust in the wizard world?

But that was all in his other life. There was nothing that the cancer surgeon he was could do. He was helpless.

Once again.

'No, ma'am,' he finally said, after an awfully long time.

She didn't believe him, but she decided to let it rest, he could see. 'Well, Potter, I don't want you dropping on us. Watch yourself, will you?' She frowned with severity, but the concern in her eyes was genuine, as well as the smile playing on her lips.

Despite feeling rather miserable, he couldn't help smiling back. 'Yes, ma'am,' he said again, more firmly.

'Good. That's the spirit!' Just as she left, her fingers rapped on the door and pointed to the clock – he had to go.

Harry shook his head, pushing his worries away, then he sprang up, shrugged on his blouse and went back to work.

* * *

Remus Lupin looked outside the window. Wind lashed out at the world, bending mighty trees with its wrath as it howled in fury against everything that was, whipping all and sparing none. Dark clouds had come with it, like crows in the wake of an army, and the whole created a peculiar atmosphere, heavy and threatening and stifling.

His own house shook under the strain. Remus tried to bury himself in books, as he was wont to do when unable to go for a walk, but it wasn't working; something was off and he was feeling restless. Feeling a little cold, he rose from the window side and scraped his chair closer to the timid fire burning in the chimney, tendrils of wispy smoke curling almost wistfully around the flaming logs before drifting upwards and into the fury,

There was a soulful air to everything today, it seemed. Strange how he was always the most observant as when he was forced into reflection by circumstances. He itched to go out and stretch his legs, yet at the same time, a great lassitude had taken over at the thought of the fierce battle he would have to face outside. He sighed. Not even thoughts of things past, of merry laughter and peaceful times and playful walks in the wood could cheer him up.

_When had he got so old?_

Just as he was rising to make tea, to keep himself occupied, the very fire he had been staring into came alive with a beautiful green color. Mere seconds later, Hermione Granger was emerging from his chimney, stepping out with the slightest bit of a stagger, shaking soot off her robes.

'Thank you,' she told him as he had unconsciously reached out to steady her. She looked up at him, chocolate brown eyes sparkling with life and the energy of youth – _again __an __old __man's __thought, __Remus,_ he told himself. Something in her expression softened as she took in the sparse furniture, his threadbare – well, everything. All of it screamed of unemployment and difficulty of making ends meet. But when she looked at him again, any sign of unwelcomed pity was gone, and Remus had the bizarre impression of being several years earlier, with an acutely curious Muggleborn witch for a student. 'Professor Lupin,' she said, 'It's nice to see you.'

'Nice to see you as well, Hermione, but please call me Remus, will you? I feel old enough already.'

She pouted a little. 'I'm not used to calling former teachers by their first name... You'll have to forgive me if the transition takes time.'

He waved her off. 'Would you like some tea?' As he was busying herself putting the kettle on the fire – magically conjured tea never quite had the same taste -, he asked: 'So why are you here, then? Not that I mind,' he added hurriedly when he saw her worried expression.

'Do you know Occlumency?'

Not one to beat around the bush much, her. 'No. Werewolves are entirely immune to Legitimency, therefore I never had to learn it. Why?'

'So you know _of _it?' she asked then, unwittingly ignoring his question.

'Well I'm not a specialist, but I do know some of it, yes. But you'd be better off speaking to an expert, you know. Professor Dumbledore is one, I'm sure he wouldn't mind explaining it to you.'

'I'm sure he has other things to do.'

Remus shrugged. 'There's always Severus...'

'I'm not having anything to do with that man, not if I can help it.'

Startled by such vindictiveness, he laid back a little. 'Any particular reason why not?'

'Because he's an unfair bastard, that's why!'

His mind jumped back to third-year Hermione, polite to the extreme and always a little fearful about defying authority, no matter how misused, and the contrast was so stark he found himself laughing. 'Hermione, you're one of a kind.' There was a constant, though: her hate of prejudice and unfairness. She hadn't brooked it for Buckbeak, after all, and he was surprised she had borne it so long from Snape.

She blushed a little. 'Sorry. It's just... I thought a lot ever since I graduated from Hogwarts and I thought that yes, he has had a rather sad life but so has Harry, or Sirius or… ' She stopped herself. _So __has __you_, was what she had wanted to say, or so he guessed. 'That has never made them become bitter, snarky or downright traumatizing for children! I mean what the hell is that man doing in a classroom…!'

She crossed her arms in indignation; the picture so amusing Remus might have laughed again had the kettle not signaled its displeasure at being left alone. She rose with him to fetch the teacups while he took care of the pot, and when she sat down again, she had calmed down enough to remember the purpose of her visit,

'So, about Occlumency? What can you tell me?'

He stirred the tea to give himself time to think but in the end, he was helplessly curious. 'Why do you want to know, though?'

Looking into her face, he could see a little embarrassment. 'It's about Harry. I'm not sure I'm supposed to say.'

About Harry...? Remus blinked. Could it be his (adoptive) godson had decided to tell the prophecy to his friends? But Occlumency took time to understand, much less master till not even the Dark Lord could penetrate one's shields. _He __should __have __told __them __to __learn __Occlumency __much __earlier_, Remus reflected. That he hadn't revealed quite a lot on how secretive Harry really was. Hufflepuffs were supposed to be loyal to the end, but the myth that they were trusting to the point of naiveté was just that: a myth. Even _he_ didn't know half the secrets Harry kept!

Lost to his musings, he finally realized she was still waiting for an answer and cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. 'Occlumency, then... It's mental magic. Wizards use it to shield their minds from mental invasion, mental attacks, visions... Occumency also helps stimulate one's memory, as a good part of it consists in putting order into your memories, which is why it is sometimes taught to people suffering from punctual memory loss.' Remus had slipped back into teacher mode without knowing it, and it struck him how much he still loved it, even now that his career had been flushed down the drain by the Potions master. 'Lastly, it allows one to have a better grasp on their emotions; it teaches self-control. People with a temper will for example manage their anger far better.'

'And you say Snape is a master?' she asked, tone full of derision. 'I can't imagine how he was _before_ he learnt, then.'

_More __angry __than __bitter, __unlike __now._ The problem was that one could rid oneself of anger... Not so with bitterness, for bitterness was regret's sibling. _And __Snape __has __plenty __of __those._

'Do you know anyone who would be able to teach us?'

Remus frowned, thinking hard. 'Other than Dumbledore and Snape... Perhaps people of the Order, like Kingsley or Tonks?'

'The Order... of the Phoenix?'

Remus stared, disbelief making him forget his manners. 'Harry has never mentioned it to you?'

Hermione smiled, 'He's not so tight-lipped as that. He has talked about it, but I think only Susan and Neville got to meet some of you. I was merely confirming the name. I didn't know you were part of it.'

'I am. Sirius was, as well,' he said, his throat closing up unexpectedly when he mentioned his friend. It had been several years since he passed away, but to Remus it was a wound as fresh as if it had been yesterday. It was a good thing he had Harry and the Order to keep himself busy, or he would have way too much time to look around and realize none of his friends were still alive.

'I see,' the witch said, a little unsure; she mostly was, whenever Sirius was concerned. If Remus remembered right, she had only met him once, back when he was still a convict on the loose, the night when they had all discovered Peter to be the traitor instead of Sirius. And it was only after his death that Harry and her had grown close enough for him to talk of things other than classes and the weather and other politically-correct things one spoke of with acquaintances. 'Who, then, among the Order?'

'I'll ask for you at the next meeting. If nobody is available, I'm sure Dumbledore will find an Unspeakable to be your tutor. How many of you would there be?'

'Five.'

'All right.'

Sience stretched for a moment as both sipped their tea, which had gone from scalding to merely hot, welcome warmth against the battle of the elements outside. To make it even worse, a somewhat ethereal fog had slinked out of the ground, blurring everything, and the rain had begun to pour.

'You've heard about Azkaban?' she finally asked, the subject probably prompted by the dreary weather.

He nodded.

'Neville is taking it hard,' she revealed. 'That Bellatrix Lestrange had escaped was bad enough, but now Rodolphus as well... And all the others that helped torture his parents...'

_Alice __and __Frank __Longbottom_. _Other __people __I __used __to __know __who __are __no __longer __around. _The names brought bits and pieces to his mind, a smile, a shake of the hand, a night spent playing billard... Now ghosts of their former selves, in Saint Mungo's for life.

'It must be hard,' he conceded, thinking of his former student with concern. 'You should send him to me. I don't know if I can be much help, but I know how it feels to have people you loathe running free.' Again, he thought of Sirius's wild face and haggard look on every newspaper in the country. These days, the newspapers displayed a different picture: that of Great Britain swarmed by Dementors who kept showing up everywhere, and terrified at the idea that Death Eaters would soon join in, bringing about mayhem and destruction.

'I'll tell him, I think he might just swing by.' She checked her wristwatch, a thin little thing of silver he had sniffed as soon as she had stepped into the room. 'I have to go. It was a pleasure, Pro- Remus.' She smiled at him prettily. 'I'll see you soon.'

'It will stil be too late,' he retorted, a smile tugging at his own lips. He watched the fire turn green and engulf the witch, and then he was alone once again, loneliness draping over his shoulders once again, disagreeable and cold. Suddenly, it was too much for him to bear and he wanted nothing more than to be _out_ of this wind-beaten house, so he took his cloak, locked all entry to his chimney save his own by a flick of his wand, and grabbing a fistful of powder, he was off. He might as well go see Harry; heaven knew his godson must be handling the news of Akaban's fall quite poorly as well.


End file.
